


The Riveting Chronicles of Corgan the Bard

by TableTopGamer



Category: Dungeons & Dragons (Roleplaying Game), Dungeons & Dragons - All Media Types
Genre: Backstory, Bards, Dungeons & Dragons 5th Edition, Dungeons & Dragons Campaign, Dungeons & Dragons References, Fire, Friendly Neighbourhood Pubs, Homelessness, Human Trafficking, Khajiit Trafficking, Magic, Merchant Princes (Port Nyanzaru), Minor Character Death, Roleplaying Character
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-10-21
Updated: 2020-10-21
Packaged: 2021-03-08 19:48:03
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 3
Words: 3,101
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/27132034
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/TableTopGamer/pseuds/TableTopGamer
Summary: The most amazing gift that I've found in life, are the stories that people bring.I've made it my life's pursuit to collect and share stories through song.I think it's only fair if you hear my own story too.
Relationships: Original D&D Character(s)/Original D&D Character(s), Original Male Character/Original Male Character
Kudos: 1





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is just me indulging myself with character backstories.

My father always said that we were responsible for crafting our own stories. 

As a child I would hold on to the edge of his rainbow patchwork cloak as he played, busking on the streets of the bustling port city. “Just look around you!” He’d say with an enthusiastic gesture across the crowded streets of the harbour, “Have you ever seen a place so rife with potential? Everyone has their own tales to tell. Simply open your ears and find yourself filled to the brim! You can be anyone, young Corgan, you can be everyone and no one - who’s to tell you otherwise?” 

My parents met in a barfight. My father would say it was the red-string of fate that dropped him into the lap of his beloved. My Da would scoff with a fond look on his face and say that it was stupidity and the arrogance of youth that could be blamed. From what I can gather, the actual story went along the lines of this: Da was walking into his favourite pub in the Market Ward; the shabby but personable Thundering Lizard, when out the swinging doors a male elf dressed entirely in shades of purple came flying through the air and crashed bodily into the unsuspecting human. The two landed in a heap of tangled limbs, locking eyes before the elf burst into laughter saying, “Never before have I found myself such an attractive cushion so unattended on the street! Pray let me claim you before anyone else can!” The romance was swift after that, Da being helpless to resist the charismatic presence of one Tyor the Bard.

Da was a fisherman native to Port Nyanzaru, steadily increasing the reputation of his company: Dornal’s Scales. At peak he owned and managed five ships out of the Harbor Ward employing more than twenty individuals. For ten years they lived a very comfortable life above the company warehouse in the Harbour Ward of the city. My childhood was filled with the sound of music and laughter. While my father was a wave of chaotic energy and constant movement: flitting and dancing with peals of raucous laughter encouraging me to push boundaries and try new things, my Da was always the calm port in the storm: quiet and strong, softly smiling, picking me up whenever I fell with warm arms that would tend to scraped knees and gently rock me to sleep.

Life was glorious.

But the fire changed all of that.


	2. Chapter 2

I was woken to the sound of wood splintering. I could hear men shouting, the deep rumble of my Da’s replies followed by the crashing sounds of items being thrown around. I was terrified and found myself reminded of the time my father had been punched by the tall brown skinned orc who laid him out with one solid thwack to the eye. I had been scared then too, never having seen such violence before. The orc had rifled through his belt and took his money pouch, spitting on my father as he left. “Ah,” he said, touching his face with a wince, “Your Da is going to be furious. Deep breath, little Corgan. Don’t be frightened, people like that may seem impossibly tough, but bide your time and get them in the kidney when their back is turned. They squeal just as loud as the rest of us then.” 

That night my parents had gotten into an argument loud enough to be heard down the hall. “You keep messing with those you ought not mess with! You’re not invincible, and one of these days you’ll not get away, what will happen to us then?” My Da had shouted with a voice thick with some emotion I couldn’t name. “Worry not, Beloved. I know when to run. And I promise, I’ll always run my way back to you.”

I was pulled out of my memory by a sharp shout of pain from downstairs. The crashing had finally stopped and the sudden silence was broken by someone shouting “Where is he?! Where is our money?!” followed by another period of silence. “He’s out…..hit too hard….search the place?” a quiet voice asked. “Fuck it. Light it up, teach that pointy eared fuck a lesson.” There was the sound of laughter, and the faint but rising smell of smoke. My breath was coming in short, wheezy pants and I was frozen pressed to the wall of my room. After a while I could hear a crackling sound, and the smell of smoke became cloying, sitting in the back of my throat causing me to cough. 

With a start I stood, throwing open the door with the intention of running downstairs. The hall was barely visible, the air thick and hazy, my eyes immediately burning with the sting. I knew I had to get out. I turned and climbed out my bedroom window, shimmying down the drainage pipe to get to the street a few floors below.

I think I spent the night running from pub to pub, searching for my father, though it’s hard to remember. I know I was inconsolable and ran from those who reached out to grab me. I didn’t even realise until the next day that I was dressed only in my nightclothes, feet bare and cold. I searched until the sun stained the sky a pale pink before falling asleep in exhaustion at the end of an alley.

By the time I had made my way back to my house the fire was long gone. The harbour watch had been quick to respond, protecting the homes and warehouses tightly packed in the area. So a fair bit of the house remained intact. Letting myself inside I rifled through the charred remains of my home finding a few clothes, a pair of boots too big - bought in advance of my next growth spurt - a lightly charred dark green cloak belonging to my Da and my father’s old Dulcimer, the one he had replaced last summer but couldn’t bare to completely get rid of. With a determined sigh and one last glance at the remnants of my life, I set out again to search for my father.

-

The next few years involved a sharp learning curve as I adapted to my change in circumstance. Many days were spent wet and cold, as my cloak was used to protect the precious dulcimer that was all I had left of my family. There were days where I felt a hole being eaten through my abdomen, reminding me how many days it had been since my last meal. Days where the loneliness ran so deep that you ended up talking to the rats that lived in the alleys with you. However, as the young are wont to do, I learned to adapt. I began to busk on the streets for coin, enough for a hot meal or a shirt with fewer holes. Things kept getting easier as the time passed. I still had days where I ran from those who sought to rob me, and more often from those I had robbed, but overall I learned to play the game and use my circumstance to my advantage.

The streets aren’t as bad as people think. 

I often think to myself that if you really want to know how a city runs, you ask those that live in it’s shadows. You learn a lot about people while watching from below them. I’ve learned that the owner of Heritage Chamberlain, Colette Dubair, has a soft spot for kids since she can’t have any of her own and lets everyone sleep in her basement that’s kitted out with more pillows, blankets and soft furnishings you’ve ever seen. There are a few bathing houses that will let you in at night after a day's business when the water isn’t fit to sell and frankly quite cold, before it’s emptied for the night. I’ve learned that the Waukeen priests, who organise the city’s civic improvement committee, run food kitchens in all major wards that are open at least once a day and if you’re fast enough you can hit more than one. 

I quickly learned to avoid the Merchant Princes who are the governing force running the city, they’re snobbish and uptight nobles that don’t like thinking of the poor and their lackeys are just as bad if not worse - often prone to a sharp kick or spitting in your general direction. The exception to this is Kwayothe, who almost exclusively uses the lower class to run her goods across the city, stating that no one else knows the meaning of hard work and are too consumed by greed and the smell of their own backsides to notice their fancy pedestals are burning beneath them.

I love this city. I love the thundering joviality of festival days, where dinosaur races run across the city and the booze flows leaving people friendly and lax on securing their coin purses. I spend my nights at the Thundering Lizard, performing on my dulcimer for the promise of dinner by Lizarn, the boisterous half-elf that runs the place. He knew my parents and always keeps me updated on news of the city. I spend much of my time writing songs about the people I come across and running errands for those willing to pay.


	3. Chapter 3

One day I was on a job for Kwayothe who had a deep intense hatred for Zanthi, the Merchant Prince of gems and jewels. Every month or so she would gather a group to run a raid on a movement of goods across the city from the other prince, sometimes a raid on a warehouse or a myriad of other pranks and disruptions. Today it was simple. Zanthi was delivering a set of custom ordered jewelled harnesses for a pair of panthers recently acquired by Ifan Talro’a, the Merchant Prince of animals. A group was hired to ‘accidentally’ get into a fight, bumping into the courier transporting the goods. I was to be unobtrusively in the area and take advantage of the distraction to rush over and grab the goods before making a break for it and returning to Kwayothe. Simple. Easy. Remarkably petty, yet the job had the promise to make an interesting song. 

So the day found me sat on the street, feeding the remnants of my cheese sandwich to my rat, Pumpkin, luxuriating in the sunshine while humming absentmindedly to myself as the messenger came trotting down the street, a black and gold inlaid box sitting obnoxiously in his grip. It wasn’t even covered up! It’s like they /wanted/ it to be stolen! Feigning disinterest, I watched from the corner of my eye as the two plants started arguing, waiting for my moment. With a screech of rage the two begin hurling fists, building into a crescendo of flailing limbs, until a perfectly timed shove sends one flying into the hapless courier. The box is dropped as the two immediately surrounded him with fevered apologies and pats to the dust on his uniform. I’m already moving, darting forward with a kick-lift that sends the box into the air and in my waiting hands as I break into a run. 

There are shouts behind me, but the streets are my home, no courier can never know these back alleys like I can. I run and twist my way in a convoluted loop before slowing, pulling a cloak and hat out of my pack. The box is stowed under one arm, covered by my patched green cloak which is draped stylishly over one shoulder. I stop for a moment to get my breathing back to normal and place my green cap over my head remembering to tuck in my ears before preparing to head back onto the throng of traffic, when a sound catches my attention.

It’s a muffled sound. A high pitched “Mmmph!” that is quickly silenced. Curious, I backtrack down the alley and peer through an open gateway into a courtyard beside one of the large warehouses of the district. There is a covered cart stationary beside a large sliding warehouse door. The cart appears to be full with crates and barrels and two horses stand with heads down in deference to the humid heat. Nothing looks amiss, so I begin to turn back the way I came when a sharp grunt of pain comes from within the warehouse. A small white furred khajiit child comes running out from the entrance, hands bound behind their back. A large scarred bearded man comes barreling out after them, face twisted in a snarl. 

Reaching for the power within myself I whistle a twisted melody of shrill fear, sending it in a pulse towards the man. The pulse of sound hits him and he falls to the ground screeching in pain as he attempts to block out the sound with his hands. With my free hand, I reach out to the child and pull the knots holding their hands together free. “This way!” I tell them and with one hand in mine, we run the most twisted route back to the Heritage Chamberlain. 

“We’ll be safe here, I promise.” I tell the child, gesturing them into the basement. We are both panting and slick with sweat. Once inside the cool interior The child begins to shake, deep tremors wracking their small body and they hug their bushy tail protectively to their chest. “Are you going to sell me too?” The child whispers, looking down at the floor. 

“Nope!” I say, popping the last syllable as I pull out the last of my sandwich “I’m going to feed you. Find your family, if I can. Do you have family?” A glance at the kid shows me a tearful nod of their head. I hand out the sandwich. “This is all I have for now, why don’t you settle down and get some rest and I’ll see what else I can scrounge up. Sound good?” Ensuring that the kid borrows effectively in the nest of blankets and pillows that lay abundant across the room, I shove the box in a plain burlap bag, changing my shirt and tucking the hat and cloak back into my pack before I make my way out of the basement and quickly over to the Market Ward to liaise with Kwayothe. 

“You’re late.” she says, as I arrive panting twenty minutes later. 

“Better late than never!” I say cheerily as I hand over the sack. 

“Any trouble?” She asks casually, pulling out a small purse from her priest's robes before tossing it into my waiting hands.

“Pumpkin saw a cat. Freaked out and bolted. A merry chase ensued but we managed to avoid being eaten, didn’t we Pumpkin?” I say, nosing at the rat on my shoulder. Kwayothe levels me with a contemplative stare before nodding. 

“How fortuitous an escape. Until next time, little bard, may the warmth of Kossuth fill you.”

“Yeah, sure, you too!” I say as she turns and begins walking away.

I stop by a souvlaki stand, tucking one of the pheasant wraps into my bag and the other into my face as I make my way to the Thundering Lizard, shouldering open the door with a cheerful cry of “Lizarn! Didja miss me?!” towards the tall dark-skinned half-elf absently wiping a mug clean behind the old shiplapped bar. 

“Corgan! Of course I did, the cats screaming in the alleys just can’t quite catch the pitch of your dulcet tones! It’s a bit early in the day, but are you here to play for me?” He asks with a smile and a nod towards the raised box that acts as a performance platform in the corner of the room. 

“‘Fraid not, today I’m here to pay for you!” I grin and pause for effect, “See what I did there? Play / pay?” Leaning over the bar I give a nudge with my elbow.

“Hilarious.” He responds in a deadpan voice, “I think you missed your calling in stand-up.”

“‘Zarn! So cruel! Go ahead and crush my poor spirit…. Hey, speaking of spirit crushing.” I say, feigning nonchalance and tossing a few coins on the counter, “Pumpkin and I came across a stray kitten today. Feisty little thing, didn’t seem to like where it was going, if you catch my drift. Of course, Pumpkin and I couldn’t help but untangle it from it’s ball of yarn it was wrapped in and try to find it a better home. Seems a bit strange, dontcha think? A kitten ring right here in Port Nyanzaru? Have you heard anything?”

At this, Lizarn cocks an eyebrow before setting down the mug with a heavy sigh, pulling the coins off the bar in tipping them into a pocket. “It just so happens that I had heard about a fancy pet distributor branching out to provide more… shall we say, uniquely skilled home pets? Now I don’t go sticking my nose into other people’s business, you understand, but even a taciturn individual such as I would know that’s not the type of person to take on. Especially by yourself. That’s a one way ticket to getting thrown into the Executioner’s Run, if you’re lucky, or becoming Raptor food if you’re not. You get me?” He leans over the bar with an intense stare.

I give a ‘hmm’ as I process this, feeding the scraps of my wrap to Pumpkin. “So you’re saying this isn’t the first stray that’s been picked up?” I finally ask.

“I’m saying they weren’t strays to begin with. With enough oomph you could make anyone a stray, if it’s more convenient.” He responds.

I nod, “You know I can’t let this go, though. No one deserves to be a stray” I say in a small voice before looking back up to him and he runs a hand across his face with another sigh. “Yeah, I know. Oiy Vey, your Da would be rolling in his grave if he knew I was encouraging this.” There’s a pause before he quietly curses to himself. “Alright, if you really want to do something, this rag tag group of do-gooders arrived in town a couple of days ago. They’ve already thrown themselves into helping free some folk from the Executioner's Run immediately on arrival, and they don’t seem to know spit about how the city works. So if anyone is crazy enough to help you, it’s probably them.”

I can’t help the grin that takes over my face. “Lizarn! That’s perfect! Set up a meet!”

“Your Da is gonna come back just to kill me.”


End file.
